


Tobacco

by Broba



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Other, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:19:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broba/pseuds/Broba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, I thought it's time to get back into it- and so here is a little sadness I suppose! John sits, and thinks, and has a smoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tobacco

John trudged home to the house that he had painstakingly put in order, almost exactly as it had been. All the others had their grand dwelling places, but he had just wanted things to be as close to how they were before as possible. None of the others had questioned it, by an unspoken agreement they were all dealing with what happened in their own way.

Under one arm he was carrying a small package of groceries from the nearby store. It was similar to the one that had been there before, which had been levelled by a meteor. Similar, but it was all different now. The familiar foods had been replaced by brands he didn't recognise, the music constantly piped through the store was grating and wrong.

John paused at the gate to his garden, and felt a great burden of tiredness wash over him. This was always the worst part of his day. He didn't mind the mornings, when he prepared a breakfast for himself in the cold blue light of the kitchen. He didn't mind the evenings when he tucked himself to bed and said the same words every night under his breath to no-one. There was no reason to it that he was aware of, but this moment when he approached his home and knew there was nobody there waiting was the worst part of the day. Sometimes he just stood at the gate in a reverie and realised when his feet began to hurt and his eyes were aching and wet that he had been stood for an hour or more. John felt like a clockwork boy who had no more ticks.

Rose was the only one he confided in, more because he knew that she'd get it all out of him sooner or later then any real need to express himself, and the only advice she had been able to give him was that he could stand there for as long as he needed to, whenever he wanted.

John sighed and walked up the path to his door, opening it with the old fashioned key. The sky was entirely overcast but bright, it was almost white all the way to the horizon and he could stare directly at the sun without discomfort. John quietly closed the door and set down the shopping in the usual place while he took off his coat and carefully hung it, and then his shoes. His shoes fit snugly between two larger and identical pairs that always sat there, always polished to a perfect black sheen.

Walking into the kitchen, John laid out his haul on the long kitchen table and put everything away in the proper places for them, occasionally pulling a wooden chair across the floor so that he could get up to reach the high shelves.

John roughly cubed two potatoes and set the pieces simmering in butter. He cut a length of celery and chopped some parsley to add. When the potatoes were browned a little he added some diced onion and pieces of ham, stirring the sauteing pan listlessly until he judged it was ready. He took the meal with buttered bread and a little milk, eating slowly and deliberately at the table. He allowed himself the luxury of the radio, tuned to a music station and on low volume, while he ate but he never sat in front of the television. He had standards.

When he was finished he wiped his mouth with a tissue paper and then used it to wipe the remnants of the meal into the kitchen bin, before cleaning off the plate with hot water and setting it to dry. John took a last look around the kitchen, and turned out the light.

Feeling warm and full, John took a seat in the living room on the couch. He turned on the television for a while but his heart was not in it. In the quiet of the room, punctuated only by the soft repetition of the wall clock marking time, John stared at a high-backed leather upholstered armchair. Where the material of the right arm tucked under at the front, just where it met the upright, was a slight flaw. John knew the leather had been carefully teased free, repaired with a quick needle and set back in place. If you didn't know what to look for there was no evidence that the chair had been repaired, it was conscientious work. John remembered that he had teased his father about the old chair and said it wasn't worth repairing again, the thing was old enough for the junk heap. He had been told, softly but firmly, that old things need a little more care because they have more to give.

John pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses and when he swallowed he could hear it thickly in his throat as tears went down. He stood up suddenly and made his way to the old chair, running a hand over the shiny places where for years an elbow had rested, a fingertip had drummed idly. He took a breath and sat down, and to his surprise there was barely a creak as the chair took his weight effortlessly. He felt enclosed by the unfamiliar seat, he had never sat in the chair since he had put the room back together. John glanced around the room slowly. The wall clock was set a comfortable distance away on the opposing wall so that it was in view, as was the couch where he habitually sat. Beside his foot was a magazine rack, now empty. He had considered it, but he didn't know what should go in there. On the table by the chair, just within reach, was a carved wooden box. John remembered when his father had set it there, purposefully, and filled it. John opened the lip and within he saw his father's briar pipe, pipe knife and pouch along with a box of his favoured brand of matches.

John smiled and took out the pipe, holding the faint weight of it in his hand. The bowl nestled perfectly in his palm, a comforting size and shape that seemed just right. He took the thin knife and ran it around the inside of the bowl as he had seen his father do, and upended the bowl in the little glass ashtray next to the box, depositing some black ashy remnants. He set the little knife down and stared at the pipe while the clock ticked off another minute or two faithfully. There was a certain way of doing these things, he remembered clearly sitting with his comics and sometimes looking up to see his father pause to set down the newspaper with a rustle and fill his pipe. He remembered clearly a particular Sunday when they had sat together in this room for what seemed like the entire afternoon. They hadn't spoken or done anything in particular, but had been quietly content with each other's company while they went about their business.

John pulled open the tobacco pouch and unfolded the little plastic wallet to take out just a pinch of the stuff for the pipe bowl. It was brittle and dry, and felt crispy between his fingertips. John put the biter of the pipe between his lips and smiled as he remembered how his father had tucked the lip of the biter behind his front teeth and rested the weight of the pipe on his lip while he fiddled with matches. John used to think it looked a little funny but he hadn't said anything. John pulled a match from the box, which was emblazoned with a red ink logo showing a stern looking man with brushed-back hair enjoying a cigarette. John clasped the match between finger and thumb and briskly struck it across the sandpaper side of the box, pleased when it flared into life on the first try exactly as it should. He wasn't thinking about it, but he put the match to the pipe bowl and sucked a few times.

Something grey and acrid filled his mouth and he snorted involuntarily, sending a cloud of smoke out of his nose. He waved out the match and tossed it in the ashtray, cupping the pipe bowl in his palm while he coughed once. He touched the biter of the pipestem to his lips and sucked experimentally, and to his pleasure he heard a sound like a faint tread on autumn leaves outside the window as the tobacco flared dryly in the briar and produced smoke.

This time John was careful not to inhale but he tasted the smoke and it left his tongue dry and a little bitter, but it was not wholly unpleasant. He blew out a thick stream of smoke and watched it curly into the air. His father had delivered lessons from this chair, and told him things about the world and the way that a man should be in it, and he had smoked his pipe all the while. John had not listened nearly as closely as he now wished, but still his father had always been proud of him. John swallowed and felt tears again, so he took a little more smoke from the pipe to dry himself out. He was sat in his father's chair with his father's pipe, and as he watched a slant of light from the window glinted on the face of the clock, which took away a few more seconds dutifully. John felt his shoulders relaxing a little, and the chair creaked warmly under him as he settled.

When he took the pipe from his lips and gently knocked the ash out into the tray before setting it all back in the box, John reflected that his father had left him more then a little house and a pouch of tobacco, and in these little rituals he went through he could feel more then a trace of the man behind them. John closed his eyes and drew his hand across his chest to rest on his shoulder. He imagined that he could feel strong, warm fingers there clasp him with pride and love. No tears, this time, but John stood up and ran his fingers over the familiar carved wooden box, and smiled a little.

 


End file.
